🔗 Share this article

'We seek action, not sympathy'.

Juwayriya Adwan, twelve, al-Mawasi

It has been 24 months since I entered a real classroom. That long since I listened to the morning bell at the institution I attended, took my seat and answered questions during my favourite class. Occasionally I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: writing residue, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the conflict started. My books were burned, and some of my friends killed.

I was in elementary level on the seventh of October: the last day I entered the school building. That beginning of the day, warning alarms sounded through the passageways. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even she sounded shaky. I remember hoping for a normal day; lessons, recess, a literary performance. Instead, that day signaled the conclusion of my old life.

The war has taken so much. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my parents, two brothers and sister in a packed refuge in al-Mawasi. The temporary partitions flap in the wind, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We line up for sustenance and drinks. Energy access is fantasy and privacy doesn’t exist. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I gaze toward the night lights through the holes of my temporary home and ponder if my peers see the same sky. Some contact me when they can, stating they yearn for classes and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once envisioned entering the education field to support Gaza’s children study, even when existence was challenging. Now I aim for being a reporter – to draft, to talk and to demonstrate the world what it means to be a child in Gaza. I want to share our experiences of anxiety and deprivation, but also bravery. Because even in this place, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I try to study via the web. Other times, I go to a tiny space where aid workers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the electricity cuts out or the attacks recommence but in those moments, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

The war has taken so much; our residences, schools and kin. I grieved for my uncle, his partner, and their offspring. I forfeited my beloved urban area, that southern city, which is nothing but rubble now. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because that is the loss of the future itself.

To the global audience, I state this: preserve our aspirations. We seek no sympathy, we require steps. Gaza’s children merit books, schools and security. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a basic right. Gaza is not just ruins; it is youth who still dream under aerial surveillance at night. It is my story and I will continue writing, even if all I have left is a fractured utensil and a piece of torn paper.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, teacher in central Gaza

I have been teaching in Gaza for over ten years. First in a southern city, then in a different town, and presently in this refugee settlement in the heart of the region. Before the war started, I used to teach six classes of about 40 students each, almost two hundred forty individuals keen on education.

Educating them was my vocation and delight in reality, and I still recollect the twinkle in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every instructor strives for.

I always was convinced education should be dynamic. My classroom was a area of play, creativity, and motion. We designed geographical illustrations, dramatized bygone episodes, and transformed instruction into narratives.

Joy always permeated the space as inquisitiveness substituted anxiety. Yes, even in earlier times, young residents were always frightened. My learning environment was a secure location but after that day, everything changed.

My educational institution became a safe haven for households running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and entirely ruined. There are very few educational facilities left standing in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The hostilities has shattered every part of our existence: safety, residences, educational centers, hopes. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

A significant number of my learners are now dead – minors who talked about becoming physicians, painters, and teachers. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here endure starvation, displacement and weariness – and yet, they still hold onto the thirst for knowledge.

At times, when the online access allows, I receive messages from a small number of them. They contact questioning: “Are you safe, educator?” We share brief words, abbreviated teaching, tiny sparks of connection amid the chaos. They question if situations will ever go back to normal. I state to them I have no answer.

Throughout Gaza, teachers, helpers and non-profits try to teach in all available spaces: in shelters, destroyed learning spaces, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Numerous of us are also guardians. I am a mother of {three|several